Kirk Miller art

As a young boy, I was awkward and uncoordinated—definitely not a natural athlete. In Little League, the coaches always stuck me in right field and played me the minimum two innings required by the rules. By high school, I had given up on playing sports altogether. Instead, I found a way to stay connected by becoming the manager of the basketball team, a role I held from my sophomore through senior year. It was my way of contributing, even if I couldn’t shine on the court.

My father wasn’t the kind of man who handed out praise or encouragement easily. But there’s one memory that has stayed with me, and I recall it with real fondness.

In my final year of Little League, I was promoted to the major leagues, a big step for me. My dad had coached our Triple A team for two seasons, but that year he stepped away from coaching to become president of the East Whittier Little League. Because of this, our neighbors across the street agreed to take me onto their major league team. They followed the same pattern: two obligatory innings per game. I wasn’t thrilled about it, but I kept my disappointment to myself.

At the end of the season, our team voted for the recipient of the Best Sportsmanship Trophy. To my surprise, they chose me. When we got home after the final game, my father—who rarely showed emotion—gave me a big hug, told me how proud he was, and said he loved me.

That moment meant the world to me.

Some of my best memories with my father come from the time he coached our team. He was fair, consistent, and never played favorites. Being his son didn’t earn me special treatment, and I respected that.

Sadly, that sportsmanship award remains the only clear moment I can recall when my dad openly expressed his pride and love. But it was enough. It mattered.